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Best I have seen in years, well done mate![]()
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Best I have seen in years, well done mate![]()
Your mind zones out from the game. You begin to wonder what is more numb, your heart which has given in the aching so familiar when losing and given way to apathy at how absolutely shambolic we appear, or your feet, which are solid blocks of ice.
You know the game is lost, but look at the scoreboard to see twenty five minutes remain. It becomes a test of endurance, what can endure the most pain, your mind and heart or your physical body. I turn to my right, my little brother is sitting with his arms folded looking glum, my heart pings again - so young... he didn't ask for this, it was cruel to bring him into the world of SAFC. He suffered the same fate I did, dragged into this mess by my father. I look to my left to see him, sitting with a look of dejected anger on his face, like a man who has seen this too many times before.
I think of the feeling of a win, of a goal. 40,000 of us all standing and shouting at once. There is no me, only the crowd. I am lost in hive mentality that is bigger than all of us. How i wish for that. Now I sit, packed in with 40,000 men who appear to be exactly what they are; strangers. All individuals, feeling isolated and alone. The joy of winning is a mutual joy. The sorrow of a loss is yours alone to bear.
I cast my eyes to the programme, looking to see who their number 6 is as he is tearing us apart. As I read the crowd comes together as one, but not to cheer. To groan. We have conceded again. I look as people beging to leave. I have to stand as a man who sits along from me wants to leave. My first thought is that he should stay to the end, no fan should leave early... But part of me understands, part of me wishes I could follow him.
The game finishes and I trudge home, or on occassion to the supporters bus to go back to Easington with my family. It is here where it kicks in. The silence. Every face you see downcast. Climbing on the bus the relief you feel from the warmth is momentary, the mood here is no higher. The very people you travelled down with in such high spirits sit there, as broken as you are, casting their eyes wearily ahead to the following week where that bastard called hope waits to ensnare us all again.
That's all academic though, because We're going to f***ing stuff Everton!
I don't really feel like that about tomorrow.
In fact, Burchy's comment on here just made me think, some Exiles won't know about the whole matchday experience.
I think I'm going to pay extra attention tomorrow and post a thread for him detailing what I did.
Thanks in advance and that previous long post, BTW, was so poetic I read it to my wife just now. If you're not a writer, you might consider it. Lovely stuff.
Your mind zones out from the game. You begin to wonder what is more numb, your heart which has given in the aching so familiar when losing and given way to apathy at how absolutely shambolic we appear, or your feet, which are solid blocks of ice.
You know the game is lost, but look at the scoreboard to see twenty five minutes remain. It becomes a test of endurance, what can endure the most pain, your mind and heart or your physical body. I turn to my right, my little brother is sitting with his arms folded looking glum, my heart pings again - so young... he didn't ask for this, it was cruel to bring him into the world of SAFC. He suffered the same fate I did, dragged into this mess by my father. I look to my left to see him, sitting with a look of dejected anger on his face, like a man who has seen this too many times before.
I think of the feeling of a win, of a goal. 40,000 of us all standing and shouting at once. There is no me, only the crowd. I am lost in hive mentality that is bigger than all of us. How i wish for that. Now I sit, packed in with 40,000 men who appear to be exactly what they are; strangers. All individuals, feeling isolated and alone. The joy of winning is a mutual joy. The sorrow of a loss is yours alone to bear.
I cast my eyes to the programme, looking to see who their number 6 is as he is tearing us apart. As I read the crowd comes together as one, but not to cheer. To groan. We have conceded again. I look as people beging to leave. I have to stand as a man who sits along from me wants to leave. My first thought is that he should stay to the end, no fan should leave early... But part of me understands, part of me wishes I could follow him.
The game finishes and I trudge home, or on occassion to the supporters bus to go back to Easington with my family. It is here where it kicks in. The silence. Every face you see downcast. Climbing on the bus the relief you feel from the warmth is momentary, the mood here is no higher. The very people you travelled down with in such high spirits sit there, as broken as you are, casting their eyes wearily ahead to the following week where that bastard called hope waits to ensnare us all again.
That's all academic though, because We're going to f***ing stuff Everton!
..60 minutes of shite later, we're 0-2 down, the team seem never to have met each other before, the wind is cutting through you like midnight in a graveyard (which it oddly feels like, as no-one is even talking) and you can't wait to get home even though you'll get soaked on the way.
Aye.![]()
Your mind zones out from the game. You begin to wonder what is more numb, your heart which has given in the aching so familiar when losing and given way to apathy at how absolutely shambolic we appear, or your feet, which are solid blocks of ice.
You know the game is lost, but look at the scoreboard to see twenty five minutes remain. It becomes a test of endurance, what can endure the most pain, your mind and heart or your physical body. I turn to my right, my little brother is sitting with his arms folded looking glum, my heart pings again - so young... he didn't ask for this, it was cruel to bring him into the world of SAFC. He suffered the same fate I did, dragged into this mess by my father. I look to my left to see him, sitting with a look of dejected anger on his face, like a man who has seen this too many times before.
I think of the feeling of a win, of a goal. 40,000 of us all standing and shouting at once. There is no me, only the crowd. I am lost in hive mentality that is bigger than all of us. How i wish for that. Now I sit, packed in with 40,000 men who appear to be exactly what they are; strangers. All individuals, feeling isolated and alone. The joy of winning is a mutual joy. The sorrow of a loss is yours alone to bear.
I cast my eyes to the programme, looking to see who their number 6 is as he is tearing us apart. As I read the crowd comes together as one, but not to cheer. To groan. We have conceded again. I look as people beging to leave. I have to stand as a man who sits along from me wants to leave. My first thought is that he should stay to the end, no fan should leave early... But part of me understands, part of me wishes I could follow him.
The game finishes and I trudge home, or on occassion to the supporters bus to go back to Easington with my family. It is here where it kicks in. The silence. Every face you see downcast. Climbing on the bus the relief you feel from the warmth is momentary, the mood here is no higher. The very people you travelled down with in such high spirits sit there, as broken as you are, casting their eyes wearily ahead to the following week where that bastard called hope waits to ensnare us all again.
That's all academic though, because We're going to f***ing stuff Everton!
Your mind zones out from the game. You begin to wonder what is more numb, your heart which has given in the aching so familiar when losing and given way to apathy at how absolutely shambolic we appear, or your feet, which are solid blocks of ice.
You know the game is lost, but look at the scoreboard to see twenty five minutes remain. It becomes a test of endurance, what can endure the most pain, your mind and heart or your physical body. I turn to my right, my little brother is sitting with his arms folded looking glum, my heart pings again - so young... he didn't ask for this, it was cruel to bring him into the world of SAFC. He suffered the same fate I did, dragged into this mess by my father. I look to my left to see him, sitting with a look of dejected anger on his face, like a man who has seen this too many times before.
I think of the feeling of a win, of a goal. 40,000 of us all standing and shouting at once. There is no me, only the crowd. I am lost in hive mentality that is bigger than all of us. How i wish for that. Now I sit, packed in with 40,000 men who appear to be exactly what they are; strangers. All individuals, feeling isolated and alone. The joy of winning is a mutual joy. The sorrow of a loss is yours alone to bear.
I cast my eyes to the programme, looking to see who their number 6 is as he is tearing us apart. As I read the crowd comes together as one, but not to cheer. To groan. We have conceded again. I look as people beging to leave. I have to stand as a man who sits along from me wants to leave. My first thought is that he should stay to the end, no fan should leave early... But part of me understands, part of me wishes I could follow him.
The game finishes and I trudge home, or on occassion to the supporters bus to go back to Easington with my family. It is here where it kicks in. The silence. Every face you see downcast. Climbing on the bus the relief you feel from the warmth is momentary, the mood here is no higher. The very people you travelled down with in such high spirits sit there, as broken as you are, casting their eyes wearily ahead to the following week where that bastard called hope waits to ensnare us all again.
That's all academic though, because We're going to f***ing stuff Everton!
..60 minutes of shite later, we're 0-2 down, the team seem never to have met each other before, the wind is cutting through you like midnight in a graveyard (which it oddly feels like, as no-one is even talking) and you can't wait to get home even though you'll get soaked on the way.
Aye.![]()
Coldest I've ever been at a footy match, Everton December 2001 - didn't think it was possible but it was colder than Roker.
My first and last time in the stiffs gallery that is the premier concourse
I don't miss being at the game anymore.
A wander down to my local to watch the game on the big plasma screen with a few cool beers and then wander home. Total spent around 300 baht (6 quid).
It's Thailand forever for me.
..60 minutes of shite later, we're 0-2 down, the team seem never to have met each other before, the wind is cutting through you like midnight in a graveyard (which it oddly feels like, as no-one is even talking) and you can't wait to get home even though you'll get soaked on the way.
Aye.![]()
Your mind zones out from the game. You begin to wonder what is more numb, your heart which has given in the aching so familiar when losing and given way to apathy at how absolutely shambolic we appear, or your feet, which are solid blocks of ice.
You know the game is lost, but look at the scoreboard to see twenty five minutes remain. It becomes a test of endurance, what can endure the most pain, your mind and heart or your physical body. I turn to my right, my little brother is sitting with his arms folded looking glum, my heart pings again - so young... he didn't ask for this, it was cruel to bring him into the world of SAFC. He suffered the same fate I did, dragged into this mess by my father. I look to my left to see him, sitting with a look of dejected anger on his face, like a man who has seen this too many times before.
I think of the feeling of a win, of a goal. 40,000 of us all standing and shouting at once. There is no me, only the crowd. I am lost in hive mentality that is bigger than all of us. How i wish for that. Now I sit, packed in with 40,000 men who appear to be exactly what they are; strangers. All individuals, feeling isolated and alone. The joy of winning is a mutual joy. The sorrow of a loss is yours alone to bear.
I cast my eyes to the programme, looking to see who their number 6 is as he is tearing us apart. As I read the crowd comes together as one, but not to cheer. To groan. We have conceded again. I look as people beging to leave. I have to stand as a man who sits along from me wants to leave. My first thought is that he should stay to the end, no fan should leave early... But part of me understands, part of me wishes I could follow him.
The game finishes and I trudge home, or on occassion to the supporters bus to go back to Easington with my family. It is here where it kicks in. The silence. Every face you see downcast. Climbing on the bus the relief you feel from the warmth is momentary, the mood here is no higher. The very people you travelled down with in such high spirits sit there, as broken as you are, casting their eyes wearily ahead to the following week where that bastard called hope waits to ensnare us all again.
That's all academic though, because We're going to f***ing stuff Everton!